


I'm So Tired

by DemonicPresence



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: BlackIce, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's not dark but Jack does want to be locked up or hurt, M/M, Rated M for darker themes I guess, Sanderson Mansnoozie mention, Sandman (Mention), dm me if you'd like additional tags, soooooo covering my bases here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 01:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16052564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicPresence/pseuds/DemonicPresence
Summary: Jack has been fighting for a long, long time.





	I'm So Tired

**Author's Note:**

> So! First Rise of the Guardians fic, ahhhh! I'm honestly excited. I started listening to the audiobooks recently and wow, what a trip. Can't wait to dive deeper in even though I'm... six years behind the hype? Bah, who's counting?!
> 
> Special thanks to author [@not-poignant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/pseuds/not_poignant), without whom this fic would not exist. You have inspired me. 
> 
> Also many thanks to [@messythoughtsandscribbledplots](https://messythoughtsandscribbledplots.tumblr.com/) for the use of [their small excerpt](https://messythoughtsandscribbledplots.tumblr.com/post/177110097057/i-cant-do-this-anymore-the-villain-stared-in) that served as fuel for this fire. Please keep writing. You're wonderful.

Jack lurched as his feet touched the ground at the bottom of the pit, stumbling over bits of wood and earth. Gasping, he leaned heavily on his staff. Something close to sweat broke out on his normally cool skin. If a frost spirit could run a fever, this was it. It was all he could do to keep upright as he stared down the long, quiet tunnel.

The Guardians wouldn’t approve. They wouldn’t like what he was about to do. Then again, it had been a long while since any of them had checked up on Jack, busy as they were with the children of the world. Busy with their believers and their holidays and their duties.

Jack Frost took a shuddering breath and started down the tunnel. What he once traversed with flight in seconds now took minutes, nearly an hour, his pace painfully slow. He weaved around low stalactites and braced himself against their ground counterparts as he passed. His breath clawed out of his throat with exertion as he reached his destination. He faltered, stumbled again, and fell to his knees in the cavern. He was weak, and the journey here had sapped the last of his strength.

He was so tired.

The rusted cages that once imprisoned the Baby Teeth swung ominously overhead. The hollow globe sparkled with the light of children who believed. The shadows were thick, oppressive, ominous.

“Frost?”

His eyes closed at that voice. It came from everywhere at once, a low echo around him. Smooth and sonorous, it was a deceptively gentle sound that snaked in and around him. Jack’s head bowed slightly as the voice moved through the room, never coming from the same place twice.

“Isn’t this a pretty sight? Jack Frost, on his knees before me. It’s a bit late to come begging for mercy, isn’t it, Jack?” Pitch rumbled smoothly, a hint of disdain lacing his words. Jack took a shuddering breath, considered standing, and then discarded the thought. The idea of standing made his legs twitch in protest. Jack said nothing, raising his head to watch shadows dance along the walls, writhing gently like a living thing.

“Well?” came Pitch’s voice again, shadowy illusions of himself dancing along the walls slowly, surrounding Jack. “Come to gloat about your little victory with your Guardian friends? Bit late for that, too.”

“No,” Jack croaked. He winced at the weak ghost of his voice, and Pitch raised an eyebrow. Jack cleared his throat and tried again. “No, I don’t want to gloat.”

Pitch’s patience snapped, and he allowed ire to seep into his otherwise controlled tone. “What, then?” He stepped from the shadows before Jack, teeth bared in a sneer, slivery-gold eyes sparking menacingly in the low light. Shadows wavered closer to Jack’s sagging form. “What could possibly compel you to come, uninvited, into my home? You-”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Jack whispered, shutting his eyes. Pitch paused. That was unexpected.

“… Pardon?” The tone was neutral again, low and flat.

“I can’t do… do this anymore. I… I tried. I don’t know how to keep fighting. For so long, I…” Jack clenched his fingers around his staff, wincing as his hand creaked with pain. Frost flickered weakly at the crook of his staff, but there was little power in Jack left. He was so, so tired.

“You what?” Pitch prompted and watched as whatever strength Jack had left faltered. Jack slumped further down, shivering and far paler than usual, not caring as he touched the living shadows around him that lapped at his skin and clothes like small waves. Fear coiled in his gut, but even that dissipated in the exhaustion.

“I kept going. Years, for years I tried. I don’t have anything left. I’m so tired. Just,” here Jack paused for a moment, swallowed, and continued. “Just kill me. Or. Lock me up. Beat me. Possess me. Whatever you were planning to do. I don’t care. I can’t keep fighting, them, you, none of it. I’ve got nothing left.” Pride was a long-forgotten thing in Jack. He had never known a tiredness like this, not even when he awoke in the pond all those years ago.

There was silence that seemed to span minutes. Jack allows his fingers to slip from his staff and it clattered to the ground with something like finality, its icy blue hue fading as it left his skin. Jack’s eyes were still shut, and they burned, burned with the urge to shatter and break down but even that was beyond him. He didn’t care what happened to him now.

A hand closed gently on Jack’s shoulder from behind. Jack glanced up, startled, to see that Pitch was no longer before him, but behind him. Jack couldn’t read his gaze as he was drawn to his feet and back against a body much larger and hotter than his own with surprising gentleness.

“There now,” Pitch murmured, all hostility gone from his voice. Jack’s eyes widened. “None of that. You won’t be harmed here. Come.” Pitch gently pushed Jack forwards, a shadow lifting his staff into Pitch’s hand. Jack stumbled forward, but Pitch’s steady pressure on his shoulder kept him upright. He was steered deeper into the cavern, down a maze of tunnels, over stairs and under natural formations in the rock. At one point he was teleported through a patch of shadows so deep, he thought he had been swallowed by the void. He thought, half deliriously, that Pitch would release him and leave him there despite his assurance.

He and Pitch ended up in a small room, and Jack started at the sight that met him. It was furnished, with a fireplace along one wall that stood before two armchairs and a table. A bed rested in the far corner, a rug and a chest of drawers beside it. Pitch directed Jack towards one of the armchairs as he went to the fireplace. He made sure to lean Jack’s staff against the wall as he passed, just within reach of the weakened spirit. Jack sank into the dark material, slumping back. His eyes tracked Pitch’s movement with little interest. Having made it this far, well, he could hardly comprehend it. He hardly expected to be here for very long, alive, sane, much less for Pitch to-

Was he making tea?

Pitch turned, two steaming cups in his hands, setting one on the table by Jack’s elbow and keeping the other for himself. He sank into the armchair opposite Jack, studying his unexpected guest carefully.

“And to whom do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Pitch broke the silence gently, and Jack flinched at the tone. Gone was the sneer, the derision, the malice and dark promise dripping from every word. His voice was far softer than Jack had ever heard it. He hadn’t even spoken to his Nightmares with such care. It threw Jack hard.

“No one,” Jack replied, and at that Pitch narrowed his eyes. He took in the blood flecks on Jack’s hoodie, how the frost spirit’s hoodie had melted at the raised body temperature, the myriad of tears in the fabric. He observed the labored breathing, the way Jack reached for his teacup, the way his fingers curled with painful stiffness around the warm drink.

He saw Jack’s blue, blue eyes, once full of fierceness and fun, now dull and all but lifeless.

“No one,” Pitch drawled, “and yet. Here you are, asking for imprisonment, or worse. Here you are, so exhausted you can’t even feel apprehension in my presence. Here you are, in the home of one who left you for dead in the crevices of Antarctica. Try again, Jack Frost.” Jack winced.

Jack knew Pitch was weaker than when they had first met. But years passing had restored some power to the Nightmare King. His presence was known to the children, the Boogeyman hiding under beds and bringing nightmares. Nothing so grand a scale as all those years ago, minor enough for the Guardians – Sandman especially – to handle them with ease. To his knowledge, Pitch had never gone to the surface since.

But there were things darker in the world than one Pitch Black, things far more ancient and powerful. Things that rose and fell and threatened the Guardians, time and again, the ebbing and flowing of the tide. Brought together by crisis, isolated by duty. Jack was the Guardian of Fun, but there was no major holiday in his name, nothing to spark belief. All he had was a handful of children who believed, once. Now, they too were gone.

Jack had been fighting for a long time.

“I’m so tired,” Jack murmured, staring at his tea, watching the steam curl and dance in the air. “Too many fights, too many years… I just want it to stop.” Pitch studied him, considering. He recognized what he saw in Jack’s eyes: a deep, bone weariness.

“I know,” Pitch said softly, tilting his head back as he drained his cup. Sighing, Jack sipped at the liquid for a time until his drink, too, was gone. Pitch rose and collected the cups. “A break, I think. There is a bed behind you. Use it. Stay as long as you need – I’m sure there’s little children somewhere in the world waiting for a snow day. But they can wait until their frost child is recovered.”

“Frost child?” Jack said, his voice still a soft murmur, a smile creeping at the corner of his mouth even still. Pitch tsked and strode to the door, a shadow rising and smothering the fire until soft embers remained.

“You are an infant compared to me. Take it as a compliment,” Pitch smirked, then nodded to the bed. “Rest, Jack. Chill the room as you desire once you awaken, it makes no difference to me. The cold will be suited in the dark.” With that, Pitch was gone from the room. Jack, still reeling from everything that had happened, took his staff and leaned it against the chest of drawers. He laid back on the mattress, a drastic change from the tree boughs that made his usual bed.

Jack was tired. Here, in the depths of Pitch’s caverns, he rested.


End file.
